Gang Pulp

Gangster’s Revenge By Joe Archibald

The Dragnet Magazine, December 1929

A story of an underworld Czar’s revenge on the one who dragged him from his throne — a tense, fighting, dramatic tale of gangland’s most dangerous rods!

Out of the windy darkness of a side street a man emerged, hugging close to a building as he rounded the corner into the faint light cast by a gas lamp which leaned crookedly from the curb. Just above the collar of his overcoat, pulled well up over his face, high cheek bones protruded. A flat derby was pulled well down on his head but the shadow cast by the brim failed to hide the glittering whites beneath peculiar, elongated lids.

After a momentary pause and a furtive glance around, he plodded silently onward for another half block, and then melted into the darkness of a doorway.

The speakeasy was crowded. The man with the flat derby had a hasty drink at the bar and then crowded through the hard looking group and disappeared through a door to the rear. There were two men in the room and they glanced up expectantly as the newcomer entered. Preliminaries were dispensed with. The slant-eyed man got down to business immediately.

“Well, I’ve come for my cut. Have ya got it? I’m blowin’ this burg tonight.”

One of the men laughed crookedly and handed over a bulky envelope. “Sure. Three grand, Diamond. I’m glad it’s you an’ not me that’s gettin’ it. Foolin’ with the Czar is—”

“Aw, go t’hell!” was the man’s only comment as he hurried out of the room, pocketing the money.

Ten minutes later he alighted from a taxi two blocks from a suburban railroad station. It was after midnight and the streets were deserted. A chuckle escaped the man as he watched the little red tail light of the cab disappear into the gloom.

In the next second the laugh changed to a choking cry of fear. A big car with no lights and curtains drawn thundered out of a divergent street. The man started to run like a frightened rabbit. A long spurt of flame ripped apart the darkness and spat forth a message of vicious death. Another streak of flame. Another. Above the staccato report of the machine gun came a hoarse scream of terror.

A powerful beam flashed from the car and played full and brilliantly on the sagging figure on the sidewalk, following it as a spotlight follows an actor on a darkened stage. Another stabbing, intermittent blade of red flame and the man fell to the pavement, writhing and twisting from the force of the deadly stream of hot lead.

Then the spotlight disappeared. The savage snarl of the machine gun ceased. An engine raced and then the murder car was scurrying into the night, leaving a limp, torn, and broken thing on the pavement.

Czar Rohan had just been to a funeral. In fact he had personally arranged for the elaborate ceremony which was the last rite for Diamond Gavoni who, only a week before, had pillaged one of Czar Rohan’s richest gasoline galleons of its amber liquid.

His venture had ended with a funeral cortege a mile long, a bronze casket that had set the Czar back five grand, and numerous floral wreaths from sympathetic henchmen. Behind the machine, carrying the remaining Gavonis, Czar Rohan had ridden alone, nodding complacently to the police along the way who were holding back other traffic to let the procession pass.

Now that it was over, Czar Rohan was speeding toward the outskirts of the city where he had recently built a spacious abode. “The House That Booze Built,” it had been laughingly christened by the Czar’s intimate friends who, by the way, amounted to scarcely enough to count off on his ten fingers. Those who were associated with him in his various activities were given their choice of being ruled or ruined. Diamond Gavoni had chosen the latter and had been speedily accommodated.

The Czar swung his big car from the boulevard into a side street. A hundred feet farther on he suddenly straightened in his seat, his hands jerking up convulsively from the steering wheel. The blood drained from his pain-distorted, unusually florid face, leaving it pasty white and the lips tinged blue.

As the Czars body stiffened, his foot pressed on the brake with a loud retching sound that could be heard for blocks. The patrolman on the corner came running. He found Czar Rohan limp in the driver’s seat, one hand clutching his left side. Huge globules of perspiration stood out on the gang leader’s forehead. His breath came in gasps. Czar Rohan grinned painfully as he looked into the face of the policeman.

“Oh-h, h-hel-lo-o, Au-August,” he mumbled weakly. “N-no, it w-w-wasn’t a slug. G-guess l-l h-had t-too much g-grub. Be okay in a m-minute.”

“Better not start right away, Mister Rohan,” advised the patrolman anxiously. “Maybe now I’d better drive you ’round to the Doc. He’ll give you a shot o’ somethin’ to fix you up.”

By way of assent Czar Rohan moved weakly from behind the wheel. The policeman hopped into the driver’s seat and swung the car around and back toward the boulevard.

“You wait out here, August,” said the gang leader when the car pulled up to the curb in front of an apartment house. “I can get to the elevator all right. Somebody might steal the car. There’s a lot o’ crooks around here.” And Czar Rohan grinned as he walked into the building.

When the gang leader came out some time later, the patrolman saw that he was still grinning, but there was a difference. The humor seemed to be forced. But the officer knew Czar Rohan well enough to refrain from asking any questions regarding his visit upstairs.

“Thanks, August,” he said, “I’ll be gettin’ along now.” And as he spoke he handed the patrolman a big cigar wrapped in a crisp green banknote.

“Thank you, Mr. Rohan. Thank you. You’re sure you oughta—?”

“Hell’s bells!” roared the gang leader, as he stepped into the car. “I don’t need no nursemaid. Can’t a guy get indigestion once in a while?”

The big car shot forward leaving the patrolman standing on the sidewalk, a quizzical expression on his face. Czar Rohan at the wheel was smiling no longer. Once on a straightaway, he stepped viciously on the gas and the powerful machine hummed over the concrete thoroughfare at terrific speed. Motor cops wasted but a glance. They liked Czar Rohan. He gave out expensive cigars wrapped in ten dollar bills.

There were no tender words, or anxious lips, waiting to greet the gang leader as he entered the door of his home. Czar Rohan had no use for women. Liquor and women softened a guy. You had to be hard to survive in this racket. He tossed his hat to a man servant and walked upstairs without a word. Entering his den, Czar Rohan slumped down in a big chair and confronted his problem. Mechanically he reached for a cigar but his hand was arrested by the recollection of the doctor’s words.

Three months to live! His heart was rotten. By avoiding any excitement and abstaining from nicotine he might manage to stretch it out a little longer. Czar Rohan swore and selected a long weed. He bit off the end viciously and rammed the cigar between his teeth. Three months to live! The words bit into his brain.

Not that Czar Rohan was afraid to die. He had laughed in the face of death a hundred times since ascending the throne as the high potentate of gangland. But he shuddered at the thought of dying in bed. There was Monk Drew who had died of pneumonia. The gang had shown their contempt by preparing Monk for the grave with little or no ceremony. He had had but two lines in the newspapers just above the classified section. A few lilies and a cheap box. That was Monk Drew’s reward for dying in bed.

It would be easy for Czar Rohan to just take a walk into the lair of the enemy and get a burst of lead through his heart. But that would leave his realm wide open to Scar Ferrini, the one man whom he had sworn to get — “Ferrini the wop,” who slowly but surely seemed to be undermining the Czar’s throne.

When nineteen years of age, Czar Rohan, known then simply as “Red,” had wrested the title of chieftain of all the apprentice gangsters of the west side from the grasp of “Little Mike” Zarotto. Following this bloody raid, Rohan had begun to rule. He had directed raids on warehouses, trucks, and merchants, planning the jobs with a skill that left nothing to chance.

He had had little to worry about from the law. Rohan knew all the cops throughout his domain personally, and they knew of him and his activities. They recognized his power and let him alone.

When the war broke out, Red Rohan lost little time in enlisting. He came back from France a top sergeant, with two wound stripes on his sleeve. He came back to find his kingdom under the rule of one Bouncer Carrigan. Three weeks later the body of Carrigan was found in a blind alley with enough lead in it to make a six-inch pipe. The police were at a loss to know how it got there, but nothing was done about it.

Red Rohan was back. He found that prohibition had assured unlimited prosperity to his profession and he made the most of it. He found the liquor traffic blocked to the north by a gang lord, self-styled “Butcher” Lewis. Rohan assembled his hosts and marched on Lewis’ stronghold. The casualties proved heavy on both sides. Butcher Lewis was given an impressive funeral. Red Rohan called himself Czar and ruled the city.

On several occasions one or more of his lieutenants had sought to rebel. Their fate had been certain and swift. Outraged citizens demanded that the law do something about bringing their murderers to justice. The police had protested that no hint had been given as to the identity of the killers.

They were right. None had been given. But they knew. The press knew. The average man in the street could guess. But nothing was done. Czar Rohan’s position grew more and more secure as time went on. He was to find, however, that there were other rulers as powerful in their own backyard as he was in his. One of these had extended his control throughout a whole section of the country. He was called Scar Ferrini.

The wop was ten years younger than Czar Rohan but he was a shrewd ruler, as ruthless as he was shrewd. For Ferrini, Czar Rohan had had respect. So long as the wop did not encroach on his territory there was no reason to declare war. Rohan was content with his own wealth and power.

However, Scar Ferrini was different. His lust for power was never satisfied. His mob moved into Rohan’s town by ones and twos, under cover. It had taken two years and had been carefully figured out. It was the last big stronghold east of the Mississippi that Ferrini did not control. He had to have it.

When he thought his men firmly enough entrenched in Rohan’s realm, Ferrini himself moved east and sent an emissary to the Czar himself. That incident had convinced Czar Rohan that Ferrini was yellow. He sent the emissary back in a box with a declaration of war. And it had been war, bloody and ruthless.

Diamond Gavoni had been the twelfth of Ferrini’s men to die. The Czar had crossed nine guns off his payroll in accomplishing this slaughter. It had proven a bonanza era for undertakers. Ferrini, however, continued to wage a war of conquest. Other gangsters from his western strongholds trickled into town and filled the gaps in Ferrini’s ranks.

Czar Rohan had challenged the wop to stand up and battle, the winner to take all, but Ferrini was yellow. He kept to the waterfront in a huge brick building with barred windows and steel doors. Armed guards protected both entrances day and night. When the wop did go out he was followed by a big gorilla with guns in holsters slung under each arm.

Czar Rohan began to realize that Ferrini’s power was slowly but surely gobbling him up. His flow of liquor was tapped until the money that must be paid for protection began to loom up as an enormous sum. High police officials had been approached by Ferrini. His bids for the rights to liquor traffic were higher.

Czar Rohan was asked to ante accordingly. He found that there was no sentiment in business. He knew that these men higher up could have him snuffed out even quicker than his rival could. Czar Rohan paid, but he knew that his little empire was crumbling.

No, the Czar was not afraid to die. But he did not want Ferrini to live on and reap the fruits of his years of strife in his own town. He sat in his chair with his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed, deep ridges crossing his forehead. On the arms of his chair his hands were clenched in rigid, motionless fists. The Czar was no more than forty-five years old but as he sat there he seemed to age twenty years.

His mouth was a straight grim slash, his eyes sunk into dark caverns and, as he blinked the lids, blazed with unholy light. He was thinking fast. He knew that he could not get into Ferrini’s lair without being spotted by the wop’s henchmen. He would be filled with lead before he could get within a mile of Ferrini.

“God! I’ve got to do something!” Czar Rohan jumped up, cursing in desperation. “I’ve got to do something!” Time after time he paced up and down the room, hands gripped behind his back, muttering to himself. Three hours later he was still struggling with his problem. He was afraid to go to bed, haunted by the horrible thought that he might die in his sleep. It was nearly morning when he fell asleep in his chair, exhausted.

He was awakened at noon by one of his body guards. The man thrust a newspaper into his hands. Czar Rohan remembered the doctor’s warning and remained relaxed in his chair. The expression on the gunman’s face already had betrayed the fact that the news was bad.

“Chief! Fer God’s sake, ain’tcha gonna—? Why don’tcha read it?”

“Keep your shirt on, Pigeon,” answered Czar Rohan calmly. “I haven’t woke up yet.”

“Ferrini’s—”

“Shut up! I’ll read it for myself,” snapped the gang leader, slowly raising the newspaper. The gunman watched him intently, waiting for the usual snarl of rage that promised swift and deadly reprisal. It did not come. Instead Czar Rohan let the paper fall back into his lap and looked up at the perplexed gunman, his expression unchanged.

“So they got Carmody, Pigeon,” he said absently. “He must’ve got careless. Huh! Took him for a ride. Ferrini would do that. It’s safer.”

Czar Rohan’s eyes blazed. The gunman’s question froze on his lips.

“Sure! They’ll pay, Pigeon! But you’ll wait for orders like you’ve always done,” the gang leader snapped. “I’m still runnin’ this town.”

“Okay, chief.”

When the gunman had gone, Czar Rohan walked wearily to the window and stared out into the street. So they had got Carmody. Ferrini had not been slow to avenge Diamond Gavoni’s death. Carmody! The best man left under the Rohan banner.

It was at Carmody’s funeral that Czar Rohan and Scar Ferrini met each other for the first time. The friends of the deceased and their enemies had complied with the unwritten law of gangland and had attended the ceremony minus their rods. The wop, assured that his life was in no immediate danger, confronted the Czar.

“So you’re Rohan!” he sneered. “The king of this burg. Well, you’re dam’ near through!”

“Yeah?” answered the Czar quietly. “Listen, Ferrini! You’re a cheap yellow skunk. I hear you only dug down into your pocket for a little lousy wreath for Carmody.” Czar Rohan was grinning now. “And after I set myself back ten grand for Diamond’s funeral. Do you call that gratitude?”

Ferrini’s dark eyes snapped. “Listen, Czar. There’s only one funeral that I’m going to pay for. And that’s yours. I’ll let you name the kind o’ flowers you like now. Never mind the expenses. Will you have a bronze kimona or a plush one?”

Czar Rohan laughed and turned to the group of gangsters. “You heard what the wop said, boys. In case I kick off sudden like. I’m dependin’ on you birds to see that he keeps his word. His word’s no good to me. I want plenty of roses, boys, and a bronze box. The bugs don’t get you so quick.”

Ferrini sneered. “Grandstand stuff, Czar, huh? It’s goin’ to be too bad that you won’t be able to smell them pretty roses—”

“By the way, wop,” interrupted Czar Rohan. “I was thinkin’ that a double funeral would save the boys money. Name your posies, Ferrini.”

The Italian laughed. “Get this, boys,” he said. “If I get bumped off by Rohan, you can wrap me up in poison ivy. And if I was you,” he snapped at the Czar, “I’d get out o’ town tonight. I’ve got you licked, Rohan. My mob outnumbers yours two to one. If you’re in this burg tomorrow night, the morgue will be packed next morning with some o’ your best guns.”

Czar Rohan laughed quietly and turned his back on the wop. It was time to help carry Carmody to the hearse outside for his last ride.

That night Czar Rohan summoned his lieutenants to his home. He told them that he was going away. It was the doctor’s orders. That was all the explanation he cared to offer. He knew that they did not believe him. They had heard Ferrini order him to leave town. There were mutterings and veiled threats. Czar Rohan was conscious of quick movements. Then he stared into the muzzles of four automatics.

“Go ahead and shoot,” he scoffed. “The wop’ll pay you sweet dough!”

The guns dropped. There was an embarrassed shifting of feet. Czar Rohan smiled wanly.

“Listen, you guys,” he said. “You know dam’ well that Ferrini has got us licked. We’re flghtin’ the whole dam’ country. I’m tellin’ you to take a sneak for yourselves. The cops from the big chief down are throwin’ in with the wop. Our dough now is nothin’ but chicken feed. I’m through. If you want to run things go ahead.”

Czar Rohan went away.

With the last big city overcome, Scar Ferrini sat enthroned over an empire of crime that stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico. He was the law. The other law in the land was not for Ferrini. He gave it but a passing thought, lived outside of it, broke it openly.

The press clamored for his downfall and it became a joke to Ferrini. High police officials laughed with him — it was so amusing. Now and then to satisfy the newspapers, the King of Crime would arrange the demise of one of his notorious henchmen. There was nothing that Ferrini could not do.

But the one triumph over which the wop never ceased to gloat was the removal of Czar Rohan. Ferrini had been afraid of the Czar. Now he had scared him out of town. Czar Rohan was yellow. All gangland, with the exception of the handful who had known Rohan personally, shared his opinion. That handful had to be shown, but they kept discreetly silent. It would be like signing their own death warrant to still claim allegiance to the Czar.

Secrets travel with incredible swiftness through the labyrinth of crime known as the underworld. One of them, dropped casually from the lips of August Rhyne, patrolman, was snapped up and relayed to all corners of Ferrini’s realm and finally reached the ears of the King himself. Czar Rohan’s heart had gone back on him. He had nearly passed out on his way home from Diamond Gavoni’s funeral.

Gangland looked upon the fallen Czar in a new light. Ferrini had toppled him from his throne, but in doing so the new leader had become the victim of a rare joke. The wop had pledged his word that he would give the Czar an elaborate funeral in case of the latter’s sudden demise. All gangland appreciated the significance of the Czar’s last gesture and laughed at Ferrini. Ferrini put a price of ten thousand dollars on Czar Rohan’s head and broadcast it far and wide. Rohan was to be brought in alive. Those were the instructions.

Two months passed and no word regarding the Czar. Seemingly he had disappeared from the face of the continent. In fact that was just what had happened. Czar Rohan was far beyond his enemy’s reach. While Ferrini’s snarling voice was sending out gangsters to bring him in, Czar Rohan was sitting in a cafe in Buenos Aires. From there he sailed to Egypt. In the next month he was to know Singapore, Samoa, Rangoon.

He cut himself off from his own world, the hard, sordid, ugly labyrinth of crime, all with a definite purpose in view. The Czar wished to be forgotten. He would go back only when he was ready to die. Three months, the doctor had said, perhaps a little more if the Czar heeded his precautions as to the excessive use of tobacco and lived a life of peace and quiet. The erstwhile gang leader had followed this advice although it had made his existence nothing more than slow torture.

In the beginning of the third month gangland began to forget the Czar. Ferrini had more important things to worry about. In various parts of the country his vassals began to revolt. Those districts needed his undivided attention if he wished to retain his vise-like grip on his kingdom of crime. A new menace threatened in the west. Wolfe La Motte, lord of the Pacific coast, taking advantage of internal strife in Ferrini’s domain, began to throw off the shackles that had tied him to the wop. When the minor revolts were finally squelched, Scar Ferrini headed for the coast. It was necessary to draw from his forces on the eastern front.

During the bloody gang war that followed, Czar Rohan was completely forgotten. Gangland was satisfied that the deposed monarch’s heart had failed him in some far away district where he was not known. The doctor had only given him ninety days. Czar Rohan had been away one hundred days. They offered a toast to his memory and put him out of their minds.

Ferrini came back from the coast, his head bloody but unbowed. The threat against his throne had been wiped out. There was nothing to worry him now. He moved from his steel-doored sanctuary on the waterfront into a fashionable hotel in an exclusive section of the town. He even approached the outer fringe of society. He gave his Packard to one of his lieutenants and bought a Rolls-Royce.

One night, feeling in a festive mood, Scar Ferrini motored to Bachman’s, a cabaret catering to the heavy spenders on the north side. The Rolls carried the king, two painted women, and a body guard.

It was a rainy night and few revelers had ventured out. Bachman’s was host to a thin crowd. The big car pulled up to the curb and a liveried chauffeur jumped from the driver’s seat. He swung the car door open and Ferrini and his party stepped from the luxurious confines. As was the custom the king of the underworld instructed his chauffeur to take the car to a nearby garage where he would call for it when he was ready to leave.

A few minutes after Ferrini had walked through the pretentious entrance to Bachman’s, a small sedan pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street. A man stepped out and lifted up the hood, evidently to examine a balky engine. Passersby favored him with but a perfunctory glance or a sympathetic comment. The rain beat down steadily but the man bending over the engine seemed oblivious to the drenching he was getting. He tinkered with the machine for a few minutes, then let the hood down, shook the water from his coat, and walked over to Bachman’s.

The girl at the checkroom accepted the man’s soaked overcoat with haughty disdain. The owner of the garment smiled and handed her a crisp banknote.

“Sorry, sister,” he said, “but they won’t poison you. Anyway, I didn’t order the rain.” Then throwing back his shoulders, he stalked into the dining room. The head waiter showed him to a table but it was not to his liking. He picked one to suit himself. There were no arguments. The head waiter had decided upon that when he had caught the steely glint in the newcomer’s eyes.

The man gave his order and after a hasty glance around the dining room reached into his pocket for a pencil. He wrote swiftly on the back of the menu.

Ferrini, at a table directly across the room, was waxing merry with his fair companions. He had not seen the man enter, but gangster’s intuition soon warned him that there was a sinister presence somewhere nearby. He put down his glass and swept the immediate vicinity with his little black eyes. They finally came to rest on the man sitting directly across the room.

Ferrini stared, his brows knitted in perplexity. The man was familiar. That mustache fascinated him. It seemed as if it should not be there. A hoarse cry fell from the Italian’s lips as recognition flashed to his brain like a bolt of lightning. Desperately he strove to maintain his calm. The women looked at him curiously. One ventured a query but Ferrini at the moment was not interested in women.

He rose from his chair and walked to the table where his body guards were sitting. He whispered two words in their ears. The men straightened in their chairs and looked quickly in the direction designated by a swift movement of the wop’s eyes.

Czar Rohan had come back!

Ferrini knew that Rohan had seen him, but the Czar’s expression had not changed. The wop gloated. Perhaps the deposed gang leader felt secure in his disguise. His hair was uncut and he had acquired a mustache. He was much thinner and although browned by the sun had an unhealthy white line edging his lips. Yet, despite the change that a few months had wrought in him, there was no mistaking Czar Rohan.

The wop knew he was in no immediate danger. The two men a few feet away had never missed at that distance. Ferrini, however, had other plans. He waited until the Czar had finished his coffee and had called for his bill. Rohan ignored the tray of change that the waiter brought back to him and pushed back his chair. The wop waited until he was on his way to the checkroom before he barked his orders.

Czar Rohan was in no hurry. After retrieving his hat and coat he paused at the entrance to light a cigar. It was one of those little smokes one selects when there is a limited time in which to indulge one’s desire for a puff. The first twin wisps of smoke had just emanated from his nostrils when he became aware of the presence of the two men who had stopped by him, one on either side. Hard, metallic objects pressed against his ribs.

“Let’s go, Rohan. Outside!” The words were rasping. From behind Czar Rohan came a guttural laugh. The Czar knew that laugh He walked steadily out of Bachman’s. Ferrini spoke to the doorman and slipped him something.

Crossing the street, Czar Rohan spoke. “Well, boys, I suppose I’m goin’ to take a little ride. You picked a helluva night!”

“You picked it, Rohan,” snapped Scar Ferrini.

“Yeah! So I did. Well, a Rolls is nothin’ to sneer at.”

Ferrini laughed. “You don’t think I’m goin’ to get my car all messed up, do you, Czar? We’re goin’ to use yours.”

“Still cheap, ain’t you, wop?”

“The boys won’t think so tomorrow when I order that bronze kimona for ya, Rohan,” snapped Ferrini. “I told ya I’d get ya, Czar. You didn’t think for a minute that that disguise of yours fooled me, did you, you dumb Irishman? I ain’t been forgettin’ you!

“I coulda plugged you fulla holes while you was wipin’ up your gravy but I wanted to go for a little spin in the country with you, Czar Rohan.” The last two words were sneered.

“Yeah! I wasn’t tryin’ to fool anybody, wop. Didn’t I clear out an’ let you have all the rackets to yourself? I just come back to town to enjoy one more night among the bright lights. I was told that Bachman’s was a swell joint. It’s new since I went away, wop, an’ I didn’t want t’ croak before I’d seen everything in my old burg.”

Ferrini laughed. “Well, I’m going to enjoy shelling out for that little spread I promised you, Czar, now I’ve got you. I thought your dirty yellow heart would cheat me out of the pleasure of wiping you out.”

“Yeah! You got me, wop.”

Ferrini turned to one of his men. “You’ll drive, Sam. I ain’t takin’ chances on gettin’ drove into the side of a house. We’ll put Rohan in the back seat. It’s goin’ to be a nice, snug little party.”

Czar Rohan climbed into the sedan. Ferrini and one of his gunmen followed and sat on either side of him. The gangster who Ferrini had called Sam settled into the driver’s seat.

“All set?” snapped Ferrini to the driver.

“Naw, git the key to this tin can. How in hell can I—?”

Rohan produced the key with difficulty. “It’s cramped back here, ain’t it, wop?” he grinned.

“You won’t have to worry, Czar. It ain’t gonna be cramped where you’re goin’.”

The men laughed. Sam’s foot pressed on the starter.

The explosion had been terrific. The thick plate glass windows of Bachman’s had cracked like eggshells. A flying headlight from the sedan had struck the doorman and bowled him over like a toy soldier. Bits of metal, wood, and rock had flown through the air like shrapnel from a high explosive shell. Pedestrians in the vicinity had been hurled to the pavements to lie there stunned. Windows of houses on the entire block had been shattered. The bomb that Czar Rohan had planted in the engine had been made by an expert.

When the riot squad arrived, they found a heap of splintered wood and twisted metal in place of Czar Rohan’s car. Gruesome heaps of human wreckage spotted the scene of the holocaust and fouled the rain water in the gutter with a crimson tint. Thin curls of acrid smoke still floated lazily above the morbidly curious crowd which began to choke the street in spite of the long sticks that swung in the hands of a score of policemen.

Detective Sergeant O’Brien, after examining the gruesome objects strewn amid the wreckage, pushed his way through the crowd into Bachman’s place. After a ten minute grilling, he had all the dead men identified but one. O’Brien called the head waiter and asked to be shown the table where the man with the mustache had been sitting. He had a strong hunch.

The table was just as it had been left by its recent diner. O’Brien picked the napkin up, shook it, and tossed it aside. He rummaged among the dishes, lifted up the table cloth, and looked under the table itself.

Then his eyes rested on the menu lying on the floor. He stooped for it quickly and turned it over in his hands. A low whistle of surprise escaped him and his eyebrows arched as he read the writing scrawled on the back of the card. O’Brien’s mouth twisted into a mirthless grin as he turned to the policeman standing beside him.

“Huh! So they said Rohan was yellow, did they?” he rasped. “Listen!”